The Eye of the Moon

by AnonYMous

  Unfortunately, there are many unwritten rules in Santa Mondega. One of them clearly states that no one is allowed to be happy for long. There’s always something bad on the horizon. In Beth’s case it was a lot closer than the horizon she was gazing at across the sea.

  Just a few yards away from her was one of the most unpleasant members of the undead world. If she had glanced down she would have seen the fingertips of two bony hands clinging on to the end of the boardwalk. The hands belonged to a vampire. His clawed feet were dangling in the water beneath him. The waves were washing around his ankles because the tide had risen significantly while he had waited patiently for a gullible innocent to come and stare out at the ocean. Beth was that gullible innocent.

  Feeding time.

  Four

  Sanchez hated going to church, so he made a point of not doing so too often. This, though, was a special occasion, by all accounts. With that in mind he’d picked out his best clothes: a pair of blue jeans with no rips in them, and a white polo neck sweater with no visible stains on it. He’d even put some mousse in his thick black hair to give himself that slicked-back, hey-man-you-are-way-too-cool, look.

  They owed tonight’s special event to the new preacher who had recently taken over at the local church, and had a passion for trying new things. The latest fad involved inviting all comers to a midnight mass on Halloween, which was to feature a special guest appearance from what the Reverend claimed was ‘the greatest rock ’n’ roll act in Santa Mondega’. He hadn’t revealed the name of the act, so on the off chance that the act turned out to be some cheesy Osmonds-type group Sanchez had come prepared, bringing along a brown paper sack containing some rotten fruit to throw at anyone whose musical talents didn’t meet his exacting standards.

  There was no doubt about it: the Church of the Blessed Saint Ursula and the Eleven Thousand Virgins (la Iglesia de la Bendita Santa Úrsula y las Once Mil Vírgenes) was a magnificent spectacle, both inside and out. On a fine night the ancient building showed prominently against the dark sky, its white-stuccoed walls shining in the glow of the moon, its spire reaching towards the stars. This particular Halloween night, however, was as dark outside as it had ever been. Just as the sermon began, the heavy clouds that had been hovering over the church for much of the night released their load, the rain pouring down upon the House of the Lord in torrents.

  From where he was sitting ten rows back, Sanchez could hear the rain hammering against the stained-glass windows behind the altar at which the Reverend was standing. The rows of pews in the church were packed with people of all ages and from all walks of life. Sitting next to Sanchez was the local simpleton, a twelve-year-old kid named Casper who, it was said, wasn’t quite right in the head. No one knew exactly what was wrong with him, but Sanchez had seen the poor lad bullied mercilessly by other kids all through his childhood. It wasn’t just because he was a bit ‘country’, either. This kid looked funny. His hair was always pointing in eight different directions, and his eyes did much the same, kind of. He was one of those kids who when you saw him you half expected there to be a flash of lightning, followed by a clap of thunder and maybe a church bell chiming sonorously in the background. Of course, just to freak Sanchez out that was exactly what was happening on this particular night.

  The church wasn’t well lit. On this special evening, it relied for light entirely on candles set in huge sconces around the walls, and on the pair of massive church candles at each end of the altar, the light from which flickered on the tall gold crucifix set in the centre of the altar. (It wasn’t gold, in fact, but brass. Anything even resembling a precious metal did not stay long in Santa Mondega, unless bolted down and guarded day and night by semi-wild pit bulls.) The reason for the poor lighting, Sanchez guessed from the incongruous sight of of a mass of state-of-the-art sound equipment and other gear, with the accompanying mess of cables, littering the space before the altar, was that the rock concert that was to follow must be going to involve a flashing strobe-light show.

  To Sanchez, the lack of light only made things worse, because every time there was a clap of thunder the candles would flicker a little, while in the sudden flashes of lightning all he would see was the crazy kid beside him staring manically back at him with his mad eyes. Then, as expected, the church bell would chime and the kid would smile at him with his frightening crazy grin. Sanchez would have moved, but the church was damn near full. There were no free spaces in the pews behind him, and he didn’t fancy sitting too near the front and getting called up to participate in any of the Reverend’s over-zealous storytelling. There were rumours that the recently inducted man of the cloth was a tad ‘New Age’, which was why he preferred to be called ‘Reverend’ instead of ‘Father’. Whatever the truth of that, because he was young and energetic, he had a habit of hauling members of the congregation up to take part in impromptu ‘David-and-Goliath’-type role-playing.

  After listening to the Reverend talk passionately about God and Jesus and all that stuff for over an hour, Sanchez began to get restless. He was only really here to check out the band. If they were any good he was going to see if he could get them to play at his new drinking hole, the Tapioca bar in downtown Santa Mondega. If they were shit he was getting up and going home. First, though, he’d offload his rotten fruit.

  Finally, at five past midnight, the Reverend ended his sermon and people began to stir themselves in readiness for the band. From behind a four-foot high wooden pulpit set on a raised platform in front of the altar, the Reverend (who was a big fucker for a priest, the bar owner thought) addressed his audience. Although he was only in his very early twenties he did have a certain presence about him, and Sanchez sensed that beneath the long sombre black robe lay a fairly broad, muscular fella. That would be why the first six or seven rows were filled with good young Christian women, and hookers disguised as good young Christian women. They all hung on his every word. It’s a goddam disgrace, Sanchez thought to himself. Only comin’ to see the Reverend. Have they no shame? And when in the hell is the band gonna start?

  ‘Well, folks, I’m sure you’ve heard enough from me for one night,’ said the Reverend, smiling down at the congregation. He had one of those smiles that melts the hearts of women, and for a man of the cloth, Sanchez thought, a highly inappropriate glint in his eye. ‘I have just one or two minor announcements to make before the evening’s musical extravaganza gets under way. First up, I would ask that you all give generously, by making a donation in the collection boxes by the main doors as you leave.’ There was an unmistakably steely note in his voice, and his listeners shifted uncomfortably in their pews. (Charity began at home in Santa Mondega. Charity stayed there, too.) He paused, clearly reflecting on what he had to say next. ‘And secondly,’ he boomed, ‘and, it must be said, somewhat disappointingly, I’ve been informed that traces of urine have been discovered in the holy water. Would everyone therefore please avoid the water in the stoups by the west door. For sacred purposes, we have some bottled holy water; otherwise, tap water is available should anyone be thirsty.’ He looked sternly around his audience, then added, ‘And if I find out who is responsible for this loathsome act, then God help them.’

  This was greeted by his audience with a mixture of tutting and disapproving shakes of the head. Sanchez suddenly became very conscious of the loony kid next to him giving him an evil look, as though he suspected that the bartender had been responsible for the contamination.

  ‘What?’ Sanchez hissed at him, unnerved by the boy’s squinting and inscrutable gaze.

  The kid shook his head, then pulled the hood of his parka up over his head and turned away to face the front again. Sanchez brought his attention back to the preacher. No sense in being spotted eyeballing a mentally challenged kid. Looked kinda flaky. Not a good rep to get.

  Up by the pulpit, the Reverend was flicking a few switches on a control console in front of him. First, lights on the sound equipment began to glow and flicker, and then the music kicked in. The main title t
heme from the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey began to blare out from a number of huge speakers. Sanchez liked the tune,* and it created quite an atmosphere, especially in the dark draughty nave of the church, with the rain still beating the roof and windows.

  The music had played for less than twenty seconds when from behind him a blast of cold, damp air entered the dimly lit building. A musty, unpleasantly dank smell accompanied it. Someone had opened the large double doors at the back, behind the rows of pews.

  Everyone looked round, and from his place by the altar the Reverend peered over his congregation’s heads to see who could possibly be arriving so late for the service. What they all saw was a man enter. He was wearing a long black cloak with the hood pulled up over his head. A moment later a number of other men, all dressed identically, appeared through the door, following in his footsteps. They filed in singly, then stopped and spread out in a row behind the pews. There were seven of them in all, and the last one to enter closed the great double doors behind him, making the cloaked figures all but impossible to see amid the looming black shadows at the back. An unnerving sense of evil accompanied them, wafting over the congregation like the smell that had drifted in when the doors opened. They didn’t belong here – it didn’t take a genius to work that out. Tonight was Halloween, and these seven hooded creatures looked like boogeymen, in church to cause havoc and mayhem.

  The Reverend recognized the menace straight away and flicked a switch on his control panel. Immediately the lights at the far end of the church came on. The seven men were now lit up for all to see, the harsh electric lighting eliminating any element of surprise they might have had in mind if they had intended to sneak up on anyone in the shadowy church. Oddly enough, that was exactly what they’d had in mind.

  As the music grew louder and more intense the two hundred or so churchgoers in the rows of pews stared back at the seven men, all in mortal fear of what was about to happen. Then the Reverend spoke for everyone, directing his words at the unwelcome visitors.

  ‘Your sort are not welcome here. Leave at once.’ He spoke calmly into his microphone, but loudly enough to be heard over the music. There was an undeniable authority to him now, and even in his own dread, Sanchez noted again, Yeah, he’s a big fucker, all right.

  For a few seconds there was no movement from the seven shadowy figures at the back. Then the one in the middle, who had entered first, stepped forward and lowered his hood. He had a narrow, ghost-white face framed by long dark hair that hung over his shoulders. When he opened his mouth to speak he revealed a huge set of bright yellow fangs.

  ‘It is Halloween, and it is the witching hour,’ he hissed. ‘We are the vampires from the Hoods clan, and we are claiming this church and all those in it as our own. No one in here gets out alive!’

  To say that this caused an outbreak of panic would be an understatement. Every single woman and at least half of the men in attendance screamed and got up from their seats. Problem was, no one was quite sure where to run. The entire church was in half darkness except for where the seven vampires were standing, and the Reverend didn’t appear to be making much effort to turn on any more lights. At least, not at first. But then, as the theme from 2001 came to an end, another song started up and he flicked more of the switches on his console. A spotlight suddenly illuminated the stage directly in front of the aisle that ran down the centre of the church between the rows of pews. There was no one visible in the bright beam of light, just a microphone stand surrounded by a thick swirling of dust.

  The sight distracted everyone for little more than a second. Then the seven vampires let out loud screeches, like wild animals preparing to spring on their prey. One by one, they lowered their hoods and leapt up from the stone-flagged floor, to soar high into the arched vaults of the roof of the nave. Each had only one thing in mind: to pick out a victim below and dive down on the poor soul, to feast upon their blood.

  The panicked congregation still had no idea where to run. The pews were packed with struggling figures, as some tried to climb over them, others barged their neighbours, and others still sought to hide beneath the substantial wooden benches. Like everyone else, Sanchez was petrified. His first thought was to reach into the brown paper sack he had brought with him for some of the rotten fruit to throw the way of the vampires, but he quickly realized that such a course would not be wise. Instead, he decided to crouch down under the pew and hope that some of the taller folk got snatched first. So, with the courage that defined him as both man and bartender, he dropped down on the stone floor and ducked under the seat. For good measure, he pulled Casper, the funny-looking kid in the parka, down on top of him as extra protection. As the vampires swirled around in the cold church air above them, circling their prey and revelling in the fear they were inflicting upon the screaming churchgoers, the sound of trumpets suddenly blared out of the stereo speakers, all adding to the confusion and disorientation everyone was feeling.

  Then something unexpected happened. Still standing tall by his pulpit, the Reverend bellowed into his microphone.

  ‘I warned you muthafucking vampires never to set foot in this church!’ he yelled, jabbing a clenched fist up at the cloaked undead circling menacingly above the crowd of terror-stricken townsfolk. ‘Now get ready to feel the pain. Ladies, gentlemen and muthafuckers! – I give you … the King of Rock and Roll!’

  A rugged and imposing figure stepped into the previously unoccupied space where the spotlight fell on the stage. There, wearing a white jumpsuit with a thick gold belt around his waist and sporting a dense quiff of black hair and some meaty sideburns, stood Elvis, Santa Mondega’s greatest living hitman. He had a blues guitar in his hands. A smart, sleek, black beast of a guitar, shiny enough to suggest that it was his pride and joy. With his hand steady and his nerve unflinching he set about playing it as the backing music kicked in from the stereo speakers. He strummed a few blues chords real hard and began to tap his right foot in readiness for singing the first verse of ‘Steamroller Blues’.

  Elvis was so wrapped up in his music and in making sure it sounded perfect for his audience that he seemed oblivious to all that was going on around him. And such was his presence on stage that everyone stopped and stared, including the shady vampires hovering just below the roof. Each one of them was eyeing him up as their first kill.

  And then he began to sing.

  I’m a steamroller baby

  I’m ’bout to roll all over you …

  As the first notes boomed out of the amps, one of the vampires could contain its bloodlust no longer. With a piercing shriek, it swooped down towards the gyrating Elvis impersonator, fangs wide, ready to kill. In response, the King, without missing a beat, simply swivelled his hips one way and swung his guitar the other, aiming the neck upward at the incoming bloodsucker.

  A silver dart burst from a concealed hole at the neck end of the supercool black guitar. It zipped through the air faster than the lightning outside and, with a disturbingly audible thud, embedded itself in the heart of the approaching vampire. The shocked member of the undead felt it rip through its chest and stopped dead in mid air, eyes bulging in pain and disbelief. Its last thought was: Shit! I don’t wanna die to no fuckin’ James Taylor song … A second later it burst spontaneously into flames and dropped to the floor of the stage at Elvis’s feet, where it was swiftly reduced to a small mound of still-smoking ashes.

  Inside Saint Ursula’s, the mood of panic and dread among the churchgoers changed in an instant to one of hope and optimism. The same could not be said for the circling vampires. Momentarily stunned by the destruction of one of their number, they now refocused their attentions on the singer on stage.

  And the King carried on playing the blues.

  From his hiding place on the cold stone floor under the – surprisingly heavy – young kid he had dragged down with him, Sanchez looked up in awe.

  This was gonna be one helluva show.

  Five

  Kione loved 31 October. There was something d
istinctive about the kill on Halloween. It just had that oh-so-sweet taste to it.

  Santa Mondega was home to vampires from all over the world, but the city centre was reserved for the undead from Europe and the Americas. The early vampire settlers had originated in Paris, and had been joined by many of their European cousins long before Columbus discovered America. In the eighteenth century the city had experienced a vast influx of Latin American refugees. Once settled, a number of them had soon become members of the undead and formed clans of their own. Before long, the vampire population had grown far too big for the city, so that by the time the African vampires, like Kione, had begun to arrive, an unwritten immigration policy had been introduced. As a result, the African and Asian vampires settled in the hills that ringed Santa Mondega. The Orientals and the North Africans, in particular, loved the freedom and fresh air of the hills and valleys, preferring to hunt their prey in the wild on the very edges of the city. All, that is, except Kione. He had long since been banished from the hills for breaking not just some, but all, of the tenets of the vampire code of honour. A creature without scruples, class or pride, he lived under the pier, scavenging nightly for anything he could lay his foul hands upon.

  During his time in the hills he had been a member of the Black Plague, a clan that had always kept to themselves. They were vast in number and as vicious as any other vampire clan, and it was well known that if they ever decided they wanted a piece of the action in the city an all-out undead war would ensue. One of the main reasons why they stayed out was because of an old wives’ tale that had originated many centuries earlier. Santa Mondega folklore held that for one hour each night scarecrows came to life and hunted down and killed any strangers that had ventured into the city. There had never been any evidence to prove it was true, but since there were scarecrows in the front gardens of many of the houses on the outskirts, it served its purpose in keeping the vampires from the hills on the fringes.